


An Invitation Back to Hell

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Future Fic, London, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson’s had three peaceful years in London. Then Derek Hale shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Invitation Back to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt #94 - calm before the storm at fullmoon_ficlet. And it really wanted to be long, and I didn’t let it, so it’s really sort of not exactly pre-slash and maybe a prologue or something. I actually have several ideas for Jackson getting dragged back from London. It’s a theme. Anyway. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I’m just playing around with them.

He’s had three years of peace until now. Three years of being able to settle into his own skin. Three years to find a pack and finish his education and decide that he’s sick and tired of school and he’s just going to do something menial for a while.

Three years to figure out who the hell Jackson Whittemore is.

It’s been calm, relaxed, and he’s mostly forgotten about Beacon Hills.

(Not that he could ever entirely forget about Beacon Hills)

He’s got a job in a club, working as a bouncer. He looks pretty at the door, he gets offered money to dance, and he can carry anyone out, no matter how large they are. His pack owns the club, so no one really is surprised by his display of strength. It doesn’t take brains, just brawn, and it lets Jackson just forget about life and _be_.

He likes it. He never thought he’d like something like this.

“Hey, Whit, there’s a Yank here.” Des leans over the bar and grabs onto him, hauling him close so she doesn’t have to speak loud enough that the humans might hear. “Think you know him?”

“Hah bloody hah.” Jackson pins her with a glare, because they love to take the piss. Every time someone from the States come in, they ask if Jackson knows them, like the entirety of the country could fit in his high school. They get even more excited when it’s someone from California. The one time Isaac happened to stop in two years ago was obviously proof that they were _right_ , and ever since then they’ve been relentless about making sure he talks to every single tourist from across the pond.

It’s irritating, but at the same time he kind of loves that he’s _family_ enough that they give him this kind of shit.

Des just grins and nudges at him, so Jackson goes where she pushes. He can’t see anything through the crowd, but he hears the undercurrent of his name and follows that until he finds Baron standing at the door. 

“Jackson.”

He stops in his tracks. “Shit.”

“We got another one!” Baron calls out, deep voice delighted and rumbling with laughter. He claps Jackson on the back while Jackson just tries to stay upright and figure out why the hell Derek- _fucking_ -Hale is standing in his club right now.

“Even a broken watch is right twice a day,” Jackson mutters, pushing Baron out of his way. “I’m taking my break; I’ll be back in fifteen.” He doesn’t say a word to Derek. If Hale is here for him, he’ll follow. And if he’s not, Jackson will get fifteen minutes of peace and quiet to assimilate the idea that Beacon Hills is chasing him down three years after he left.

Footsteps follow him down the hall to the back entrance and into the alleyway. Jackson ignores him, just storms through the door and lets it almost close behind him. He stops when he makes it to the opposite wall and leans back against it, pats his pockets for his cigarettes and lights one up.

By the time he looks over, Derek is glowering at him.

“What?” Jackson gestures with the cigarette. “It’s not like I’m going to get lung cancer.”

“It tastes disgusting.”

Great, so other than his name, the only things Derek has said is that smoking is a bad habit. This conversation is going so well.

“It also gives me something to do with my hands and my mouth in a socially acceptable way.” Jackson takes a drag, then exhales. “You should get Stilinski to smoke. Might shut him up.”

“He doesn’t need anything that’s going to make him more anxious. Cora already has enough to do keeping him calm.” Derek shoves his hands in his pockets, hunches his shoulders.

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Jackson doesn’t want to draw this out any longer than he has to. He can already feel the prick of anxiety between his shoulders, and he doesn’t like it. It’s been nice just letting go for the last few years, not needing to bother with being the best or trying to stay alive.

Derek makes a soft noise, and Jackson wonders what’s so difficult to say. “Spit it out, Hale,” he encourages.

“We need your help.” The words are tight, clipped off at the end with a low growl before Derek tries again. “ _I_ need your help.”

Well, that’s interesting. “Why me?”

“You’re my first beta.” Derek crowds in close, hand falling to the place where he bit Jackson more than three years before. Jackson feels the heat of his touch, a burning on his skin, and he refuses to flinch or show pain.

“So?” There isn’t any significance to the first person a werewolf bites. Jackson knows that. He knew it then and he knows it now, and he honestly doesn’t _care_ that Derek Hale needs him. Hale wasn’t there when Jackson needed _him_ , so why should Jackson screw up his peaceful life now?

“I knew I shouldn’t have come.” Derek turns and starts walking down the alley toward the front of the building. “I told them it was a waste of time.”

“You haven’t _said_ anything useful!”

“And you aren’t going to listen.” Derek looks back at him, eyes flashing blue. “I’ve told you that we need you; it’s your decision whether to come home. We’ll be there either way.”

Jackson watches as Derek walks away, not sure what just happened. He takes one final drag on the cigarette, then drops it to stub it out with his toe.

It doesn’t matter. Jackson’s life is good now. It’s _perfect_. Going back to Beacon Hills would be like walking into a hurricane, and he doesn’t need that kind of shit.

He doesn’t need it at all.

And the worst of it is, he knows he’ll be on a plane by midnight. So much for calm; his life’s about to go to hell.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
